Damned If You Do
by meggannn
Summary: You met him in a bar the night he ran away from his parents. He was sixteen and different. All you wanted was some change.


**Title:** Damned If You Do**  
Rating:** T**  
Summary:** You met him in a bar the night he ran away from his parents. He was sixteen and different. All you wanted was some change.**  
Genre:** Angst/Romance**  
Pairings:** Sirius/OC  
**Words:** 5639

* * *

**Disclaimer: **I know an old lady who swallowed a disclaimer. I don't know why she swallowed a disclaimer. I guess she'll die. But at least she won't have any lawsuits brought against her for borrowing other people's characters.

**A/N:** I've never written in the second-person before. I've never written a Sirius/OC story before. I've never even written Sirius before. So I sure hope I did all right.

* * *

_**Damned If You Do**_

His name is "Serious" Black and he asks you to pay for his drink.

"Must've left it at home," he mutters when you ask him where his wallet is. You don't ask any further questions because he doesn't seem in the mood. He looks upset and tired; his hair is ruffled and his clothes look as though they've been through something big. Besides, you've don't even need to know the full story to know that you've been where he is. Maybe you can pay for just one drink. And maybe he'll leave you alone after that.

But he doesn't. "So what's your name?" he asks after he talks to the bartender, and you tell him.

"Penelope," he says, trying your name on his tongue. "Hmm. It's…"

"Pretentious." You shrug. "My dad had a thing for ancient Greek history. You can call me Penny."

You shouldn't have said that, you realize as he grins and says "All right." That means that you're opening yourself up to more conversation. You've just let him know it's all right to keep talking. It's something you don't need; not right now.

To distract yourself and clear up one of your nagging questions, you continue, "What was your name again?"

"Sirius," he repeats. "Sirius Black."

"'Serious'…?"

"The star," he clarifies, raising an eyebrow and smirking. "Sirius. The dog star. With two I's."

"Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh.'" His drink arrives and he tosses the glass back, drowning half of it in a gulp. He doesn't look as if he enjoyed it, but he keeps drinking, as if to rid his mouth of whatever tastes had preceded it.

The lights are dim and there's a layer of cigarette smoke hovering in the air around your heads. The room is warm and you're not sure whether he does that on purpose, when his leg bumps a little closer into yours, if it's an accident or an excuse as he shifts to make room for somebody on his other side.

"Are you… all right?" you ask finally, because he looks upset and miserable.

"I'm fine."

You bristle at the tone, but remind yourself it's none of your business anyway; perhaps you should just leave him alone. Just as you had wanted. You're strangers; you aren't meant to be more than that.

But he speaks. "I just got kicked out of my house."

You look over at him. "…Are you going to be all right?"

"I think so." He moves to take another drink from his glass, but then pauses and lets out a laugh that sounds a bit like a dog's bark. "Well, that wasn't entirely true. I ran away. I've always hated my family, and the feeling has been stubbornly mutual. But I'm definitely disinherited now." At your alarmed look, he reassures, "I'll be fine. My uncle left me some money. And I'll go stay at a friend's house. He'll take me in."

"Oh. That's good," you say, because you're not quite sure what else to. You're not stupid enough to say you're sorry, and you're not close or naïve enough to off him a place to stay yourself.

"What about you? What's a little girl like you doing here?"

"I'm eighteen," you say, bristled, and he laughs.

"I was kidding, love. I'm only sixteen myself."

"I can tell. How'd you get into the bar? Nobody can fool the bouncer with fake I.D.s."

He stares at you for a moment, and then finally says with a distant voice, "I – know the owner. She owes me a favor."

You know the owner, too, and you wouldn't put it past her to kick a puppy on the streets if it had relieved itself on her rug. But you don't mention this to him because he doesn't seem in the mood, and you don't want to bring up an argument.

You don't ask too many questions. Not if you want things to run smoothly. That's the first rule you learn when dealing with Sirius Black.

* * *

It's been five months and he hasn't called you once. Not even after you laughed and wrote your number on a napkin, on his arm, _and_ had him recite it to you before you parted ways on that hot July night.

But that's all right. You're a bit miffed, but he's just another guy. You move on. From late August to October you date a guy from Liverpool, but that ends when Sara finds out for you that he's still involved with his ex and drives to Luton and back every weekend to shag in her pool house. In mid- to late-November you get involved with an American, but he's only there for business. He gets on a plane back to Chicago to make it home in time for Thanksgiving and you know you won't see him again.

It's Christmas when you get a call from the bar.

"This kid won't stop asking for you," Mrs Blackstone, the manager, tells you grumpily. "Won't leave me alone. He's tall with black hair. Good-looking kid. Looks like a troublemaker."

"What's his name?" you ask wearily. You're not in the mood. It's Christmas Eve and you just got home from your tense, painful family dinner.

"Black. Lad looks like it, too; he's filthy."

The name rings a bell, and you know she'd never call unless this guy had been getting annoying. He must be just as stubborn as you are.

"Be over in ten minutes."

He's waiting for you outside the entrance to the bar, looking a bit happier than he had at your last meeting. He's wearing a long jacket, black trousers, and is tucking something away when he sees you.

"Penny," he says, grinning. "Long time, love."

He hasn't called you once and now greets you with a kiss on the cheek. Your surprise must show because he takes one look at your expression and winces. "I know, I should have written or something, but – "

"Written?" You raise an eyebrow. "Don't bother with letters. Calling's faster. I've been wondering why you haven't. Did your phone break?"

"In a manner of speaking," he says, and before you known it he has your arm and is taking you across a few blocks and inside a small, very neat little restaurant where there seems to be four waiters for every customer. You've never noticed this restaurant before, never even seen it. You must pass right by it on your way to work each day, but never spotted so much as a sign for it. But he sits you at a table and pushes a menu at you. You aren't hungry, aren't even sure why you're here, but you feel the need to humor him, to participate. But you don't have any idea what to order.

"I guess I'll have what you're having," you say to Sirius.

"If you had what I'm having, you'd die," he says. "Try the mild curry."

You decide not to challenge him on that one.

Sirius orders a whole list of foods, and soon your table is covered in bread baskets full of papadums. There is a selection of vividly colored chutneys with large pieces of hot pepper floating in them, and beers. As soon as you see the spread, you understand. He's giving you an apology meal. You did the same thing with Sara when you accidentally killed all four of her fish three years ago.

Sirius is talking a mile a minute. He starts by telling you a story about how he and his "mate James" like to show up at girls' houses with their trousers on fire. (A trick, he explains awkwardly after your raised eyebrow, that involves spraying their pants with some type of chemical – "Aerosol?" you ask, and he says, "Yes, that's the one" – then lighting the fumes, which then create fiery clouds just on the surface of the pants, which can be put out, provided you drop to the ground at the right moment, which they _usually_ do.)

The curries come out, and the steam coming off of Sirius's plates causes your eyes to water and sting. You barely notice the waiter asking Sirius who you are, because you're not a regular and she's not from here, is she? Sirius gives him a pointed look and the waiter shoots another odd look at you before disappearing.

"So," you say when the waiter is gone, "let's review. Last summer you mysteriously show up and talk to me for two hours at a bar. I gave you my phone number and you laughed and said you'd give me a ring. Five months later, after no calls whatsoever, you contact me through the bar's manager and drag me to a restaurant on Christmas Eve when I could've, you know, been busy. I was just wondering what it all means."

Before can answer, the waiter springs at his chance to brush some crumbs from the edge of the table. He has been hanging around your table like a vulture, still eying you two, and now he asks Sirius if he would like a refill. Sirius says no thank you, and you notice how the waiter does not offer you one.

"Well?" you ask.

"I've been at school," he supplied.

"Can you be a bit vaguer?"

"Sure could," he says simply. "But, in case it has escaped your notice, I did come back. So I must be interested."

You're a bit annoyed, but you still want your questions answered, and no amount of uncomfortable shifting will satisfy you. "Does your school not allow personal phone calls?"

"They… monitor a lot of our activities. We can write, though. They like us to, you know, practice our penmanship."

In your mind, this place sounds a bit like military school. "So you'd like my address so you can write to me?"

"It'd be much more convenient," he says, sounding grateful between a mouthful of papadum.

The conversation is loosening Sirius. He usually seems cool and dark, but now he is morphing into someone else. He changes the topic of conversation, talking about all of the trouble that he, James, and their friends Peter and "E-mus" get into. He talks about his professors and all the essays he has to write long-handed, and er, no, none of them allow their students to hand in papers typed up on a computer.

And of course he will have another beer.

When the two of you are done, it's nearing midnight, and you've been talking to him for nearly five hours, though it doesn't seem that long, not really. The restaurant doesn't seem to mind that you're taking up table space, though people keep shooting you curious looks, but these get easier to ignore as he spins up another story to entertain you.

"One of our finest moments," he concludes after he finishes telling you about the time he and his friends dyed one of his teacher's hair red and gold – his class colors, apparently, though you don't know of any school with colors for every individual year. "'Course, I got detention for a week. But it's not as if that's anything new."

"Get detention a lot, do you?"

"Love, we're setting a record," he laughs, and you smile. He checks his watch – a pocket watch, an actual pocket watch; you've never seen a real one before – and blinks. "Cor, is it that late already? You should get home. Need an escort?"

"I'll be all right." You pull your coat on as you prepare to step outside. "Thanks, though." Before you can stop yourself: "How long will you be in the area before you go back to school?"

"I've got until New Year's," he says. "Then I'll be out of it by anything except letters until late June. Why?"

"Nothing. I was just – this was nice. If you'd like to do it again, then…"

"Sure," he says automatically, sincerely. "Any time you like. Tomorrow's Christmas, so I don't want to bother you then, but how about the twenty-seventh? I'm afraid I'll be busy until then."

"Right," you say. "And here, I'll give you my card" – You pull out your business card and a pen, jotting down your address on the back – "Come pick me up any time after five. I'll be in by then."

"Sounds brilliant."

Sirius steps over. It looks as if he is moving to cross the street and leave you, but at the last moment, he turns, takes your face in his hands, and kisses you. It isn't a tender, slow, "your lips are like delicate flower petals" kiss. More like a "thank-you" kiss. Or even a "good game!" kiss. But it's still touching, in the way Sirius can be.

"I'll see you," he says, and before you can say goodbye, he disappears into the crowd.

You sigh and start heading home. A black dog bumps into you as you cross the sidewalk, but you pay it no mind, and you don't look too hard for him. That's the second rule. When he's really gone, you won't see him and you can't find him until he finds you.

* * *

You're twenty-one and he meets you by the harbor.

"You're late," you say, though you aren't really all that mad. He grins, looking tired as usual, and puts his arm around you with a shrug.

"Suppose I am. Forgive me my best friend's wedding."

You blink. "Oh, I'm sorry. Your best friend's getting married?"

"Tomorrow. He's ecstatic."

"You don't seem to be."

He sighs, twirls his finger around a curl of your hair. "We've been friends since we were eleven. And I love Lily like a sister, don't get me wrong. But this is the end of me and him. Next thing you know they'll be having little tykes and I'll either be asked to babysit or kicked to the curb."

You're quiet for a minute. "If you two are best friends, I'm sure he wouldn't forget you."

"We've got bigger problems to worry about," he says.

"Oh? Like what?"

"It's – the training. It's pretty bad."

"The application process?" you ask. You know he's in the law enforcement, studying to be a police officer. He doesn't say much about it, but his face darkens each time the television reports another death or bombing or strange disappearance.

He's still a bit distant, and you're trying to be as understanding as you can be; after three years, it's frustrating how vague he can be sometimes, but it's all so essentially _Sirius_ that you can't help but forgive him his faults.

"Yeah." The water's dark and glittering. There are chill winds blowing in and his arm gets tighter around your shoulders. "And they had us go out and do some… actual stuff today."

"Actual stuff," you repeat. "You mean you went out with guns and actually arrested people? They put you on some cases?"

"Mhm."

"Well, that's good. They must think you have potential. That's kind of exciting."

"Yeah, it's great."

You grow quiet. He seems to be growing more and more distant lately; quieter, more guarded. Not as if he hadn't been from day one. But still, you had thought that maybe things would have gotten a bit better by now.

"Sirius, what's wrong?" you ask pointedly. "If you aren't happy about being in the police force, then just quit."

"I can't," he says. "And I'm not unhappy with fighting. Or – enforcing the law. Somebody's got to do it. Seeing that today just kind of confirmed it. I've got to help stop it all."

You're a bit worried now, remembering that you haven't seen the news since your morning coffee and breakfast. "Did something big happen today?"

"Not for you," he reassures.

"What do you mean, not for me?"

"Not big enough for you to notice," he says quickly. "But it's still a bit… unnerving, for me."

"Oh." You get that, at least, even if you understand nothing else. "Hey, I've got a question."

"Go."

"When's your birthday?"

He throws his head back, giving that bark-like laugh, and tells you. "Why are you asking now, though?"

"I should know," you say. "It's just been a few years and I feel as if I should ask. I feel as if I should know."

"Know what?"

"Just the basics. What's your favorite food? Where were you born? What's your favorite animal?"

"Cobbler. Here in London. And I really like dogs." He grins. "There's a few other things you should know about me," he says, smiling, and your heart races a bit faster. For a moment you wonder if this is it, if he's going to tell you what makes him so undeniably _different_ when he says, "Maybe if you stick around a little longer, I'll let you know."

You can't help but feel a bit miffed, but a kiss soothes your temper and you've soon forgotten all your questions.

Rule number three: don't ever push him for too many answers. He won't give them. He never does.

* * *

You're twenty-two and watching the evening news on his stomach from your positions on the bed. Sirius is always eager to watch the television, but he always gives you the remote when he asks to turn on the news. As a cop, you wonder how he doesn't know it all already, but you always oblige, and his face grows darker each time you watch it together.

"…Penny," he says suddenly one night.

"Yes?"

"If I asked you to leave the country, would you do it?"

No longer lost in thought, you push yourself up onto your elbows and look down at him. "What?"

"Just hear me out," he says, looking at you. "If things get bad – worse – "

"You want me to leave England?" you clarify, putting your chin back down on his bare chest. "And where, exactly, will I go?"

"I don't know. Australia. That's far enough. Or maybe America. You'll be safe there."

"This because of all the bombings and deaths?" you ask, and he nods jerkily. You sigh.

"Look, it's not that I want you to go," he says, gritting his teeth and running a hand through his mussed hair. "It's just – with me as… with me fighting…"

"You think they'll target me to get to you," you clarify. You know he's taking his duties seriously; he's out there every day, fighting to bring these terrorists to justice, and it somehow doesn't matter that you've never seen him with a gun or a badge; you know he's doing something more real than you've ever done in your boring life as an accountant in a tiny family-run company located in East London.

"I think that they'll get to you because of me, yes," he says. "So if things get too – dangerous, I want you to go. I'll organize everything, your airplane and housing and everything. Just trust me. Okay?"

You do. And sometime, somehow, you come to love him, too. Just a little bit.

But you don't give yourself to him completely. That's rule number four, you tell yourself. He hasn't told you everything, so you feel no reason to give him everything. Not yet.

* * *

You're twenty-three when he disappears and you hear the news.

Murderer? Sirius? No way.

Blew up a street full of people? Absolutely not.

Stood there and laughed? You can't believe it.

Sure, he seems a bit reckless and hot-headed. Sure, he tends to bad-mouth and be particularly rude toward people he doesn't like, but that's the extent of it. He isn't a murderer.

"Penny," your best mate Sara tells you one night at the bar as you have just one drink, just one, okay maybe another to make yourself feel a bit better. "We think that… we think that he was working for them."

"Them," you say. "You think he was a terrorist."

"Well," she says, hesitant and trying not to anger you, "think about it. You've never seen a uniform, never seen a badge, or a gun… John told me that the police doesn't have any records of him existing as a citizen, much less as one of their own officers…"

You take another sip. You can feel your shirt sticking to your back. It's a warm night, for November. All the early evening colors have darkened outside the window, making it difficult but not impossible to watch a few birds fly by – owls, by the look of it, which is a bit odd, but you can't find it in you to care.

"You all right?" Sara asks, looking concerned.

You start to laugh.

* * *

They send him to some faraway prison across the sea. You're not allowed to see him. You're not allowed a phone call. You're not allowed to write.

You tell yourself you should have seen this coming. He was too good to be true; too daring, too mysterious, too different. You've had your fifteen minutes of young, reckless adventure and it's time to move on. It's a mistake everyone makes, all of your friends say, but it doesn't mean that you're any less of a person, you just made an error of judgment. We all do it. But you'll have to get over him and move on.

When you're twenty-five, your phone breaks and instead of keeping your old number, you ask for a new one. Just in case.

When you're twenty-nine, the company you're working for goes out of business. You pull a few strings and get a job at Harrod's. It's a fast-paced occupation and it keeps you busy. There's barely time for Sara or any of your other friends, but maybe that's all right. Maybe you don't want anything else, anyway.

When you're thirty-one, you manage your schedule well enough to find time to date another guy from America. He has a charming personality and a nice smile, and for a few years you think it might even work out, but you start noticing the little things, things that you don't want to put up with for the rest of your life, and eventually, he cracks, too. In retaliation, he says that you don't care, you're too dispassionate, you don't give a damn about anything, why should he believe you'll ever care about him? On the night he snaps and calls you a heartless bitch, you throw a hairdryer at his head and he never comes back.

You find it easier to forget Sirius than you initially thought. It's almost as if you want to forget. You don't look into the police records, not even that one about how he and that "James" of his nearly got arrested for speeding on a motorcycle before they disappeared into the night. You don't look into his old school ("It's in southern Scotland," he had said, "surrounded by a bunch of woods. There's a giant lake and a big field for sports.") to see what kind of dirt you can dig up on his academic career. You don't even go looking for the little restaurant. You try to forget.

But you still remember his birthday each year. Even if he doesn't remember yours.

* * *

You're thirty-five and opening your door to a filthy, long-haired stranger wearing rags at 2:33 in the morning.

It's him, of course. He is thinner, scrawnier, and looks as close as you can imagine to a reanimated corpse, but he is here. For a moment, with him looking at you and you staring back at him in the dim light coming from the bulb over your porch, you see the Sirius you had first met: the guy in the bar, the one who'd asked you for a few pounds to pay for his drink.

"Pen," he rasps out to you, just like he used to, breathing out your name in a collected, relieved sigh, as if you're just the person he's been waiting to see. "Penny. Hi."

"…Sirius." It takes you until this point to confirm that, yes – under the hair and the rags and the dirt – this is actually him. There is no fooling yourself that he is just a drunk that had stumbled onto your step by accident. "Hello."

"Can… er, can I – ?" His voice is hoarse. It sounds as if it's coming from the throat of a man who hasn't talked in a long, long time.

You're almost eighteen again, in the way you say yes and let him in; you're almost twenty in the way you warm up as he grins at you, a bit painfully, but it's still a smile; you're almost young again, rebellious, wanting to believe that he's not as bad as everyone thinks.

You lock the door and he turns to you. "I… I need a place to stay for the night."

You can't help it. "But you're – you're a murderer." With this, your voice grows stronger. "You killed thirteen people." Your eyes threaten tears but you push them back, desperate not to cry in front of him. "How _could_ you, Sirius?"

He is quiet. "I didn't."

"You're innocent, are you?" You stare. "You didn't kill anyone?"

"Not… on purpose."

"You blew up a street full of people!"

"No. I didn't." He looks at you sharply, though not angrily, and you can see the determination in his eyes, to prove himself right, to make at least one someone believe him. "I didn't blow up a street. I didn't murder thirteen people. Lily and James…" He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and lets it out in a shaky sigh while his trembling hand comes to rub a forehead tainted with dirt. "My friends… they died because of me. I didn't mean to. But it was my fault. I don't deny that at all."

You watch him carefully. "…There were tons of eyewitnesses that saw you… in the street, twelve years ago…"

"They didn't see what they thought they saw," he says harshly, hand coming away from his face, though it's impossible to tell if he's upset with himself, you, or the witnesses themselves. "It wasn't me. I didn't do it. It was Peter Pettigrew."

The name rings a distant bell. "Peter who?"

"The little bastard was always tailing around me and James. _Peter Pettigrew_. " He spits out the name like one might spit out rat poison. "He betrayed us. He blew up the street. He killed Lily and James." Slowly, slowly, he sinks into a chair at the island in the middle of your kitchen. He rasps out, "And it was my fault."

"Sirius, you're making no sense whatsoever – "

"Listen!" He is finally yelling, standing up and towering over you; and for a moment, you can see why people think he's dangerous: standing under dim lighting wearing prison clothes and a fierce expression that darkens not only his face but his entire posture, it is very easy to believe this man has killed thirteen people and laughed about it moments after.

Sirius puts his hands on your shoulders, rough, but not enough to hurt. "Listen, Pen, just listen, I need to tell someone and someone needs to _listen_." His eyes bore into yours; they're so dark, you'd forgotten; and you'd lost yourself in them once upon a time, stared into them and fell into the dark under the covers of your bed sheets – but they are so different, now, changed by twelve years in prison. They burn with a savage determination, a desire for something – revenge? Freedom? You can't tell anymore. You don't know this man.

So you wait.

"I wasn't even given a trial, did you know that?" he says quietly, and his eyes drop to the floor. "They didn't hear my side of the story before they chucked me in jail," he tells the tiled floor. "I know how it looks. But I'm innocent. I swear it."

You had been over this. You are an adult and you are far past the rebellious, risky, will-we-won't-we-get-away-with-this phase. This man is a criminal. You could be sent to jail for housing him.

But then you remember how he looked in the bar: miserable, rejected, but still proud. You remember him telling you stories in the tiny restaurant: lively, creative, and so lovable. There's nothing like that in the man standing before you now. But you want to hope for it. You want to see it.

It is with a resigned sigh that you finally nod.

He looks relieved, giving you a smile, though it doesn't quite brighten his face. "Thanks," he says. "Thanks for believing in me. Thank you so much." He swallows. "I know you have a lot of questions – "

"Take a shower first," you say wearily, motioning upstairs. "Towels are behind the door."

He suddenly looks at you suspiciously, and you promise, "I won't call the police. Just… clean yourself up first. You look like a wreck. I'll microwave something for you to eat."

"Thank you," he says again. "I know you could get in big trouble for this. But this is just tonight. I'll be out of your hair by tomorrow. I promise. I'm really sorry for all the trouble."

"It's okay," you say, though you're really not sure.

"I know you must have a hard time believing that I'm worth it," he says, and you want to tell him to get his ass upstairs and take that damn shower already because you're not sure how much longer you can take this before you crack. "But really, I'm still the same guy. Just a bit older, and I've… y'know, lived through prison and all that, but I need a shot to… clear my name," he mutters finally, and you can tell he had originally meant to finish that sentence saying something else.

You decide to ignore it. "So you believe in second chances," you say, clarifying.

"I believe," he corrects you quietly, "in however many you need to get it right."

Rule number five. Once you're with him, there's really no going back.

* * *

It's four hours later and he awakens in the middle of the night next to you. Panting and sweating and plagued by dreams of prison. The room is filled with shadows; it's dark enough to hide him, but you can still barely make out his shivering form.

"Sirius?" You sit up, covers over your chest, reaching gently for his arm. You don't know how he ended up in your bed, and you don't think about how fast he removed your clothing, or about how quick it lasted, or about what Sara or your mother would say. "You all right?"

He takes your hand, sitting on the edge of the bed. His thumb rubs your fingers gently, softly, as if scared this isn't real, that he'll wake up again inside a cell millions of miles away. And his head drops to your shoulder.

"Sorry," he says. "It's been a while."

"Since what?"

"Since I've slept without nightmares."

You barely resist a snort. "It's that bad, prison?"

He grows quiet, and suddenly you realize how insensitive that had been. Of course it had been bad in prison. But before you can apologize, he says, with a voice as thick as blood, "Yeah. It's pretty bad."

You remind yourself of rule number one and don't ask any more questions. Not as he holds you closer, not as he kisses you a bit more roughly, and not even as he cries a bit harder into your hair as the sun slowly rises.

Remember your rules, you tell yourself. Follow the rules and you'll both be all right.

* * *

He's gone in the morning. You wish you could say you are surprised.

_I'm sorry_, he has written on a note taped onto your bedroom door that you see when you get up to take a shower. _I'm so sorry. I had to go before they arrested you, too. I should have given you answers last night, or this morning at least. I will, one day, Pen. I promise. – Sirius_

But he doesn't. You don't hear from him for ages. Occasionally you'll hear the police estimate that he's in London. Sometimes they'll say he is overseas. Sometimes they sight him in Edinburgh. Despite these warnings, you can't help but remember him whenever a dog brushes your leg.

When you catch news of his death nearly three years later, you curse yourself for not feeling any sadness. You don't even feel a little depressed. There's just… shock. Disbelief. And in a fraction of a second, you already know that you won't tell anyone what happened between the two of you. It's like a forbidden correspondence hidden from the world, something only the two of you knew about; but now he's dead, and you don't want to let anyone in on the secret. It's exhilarating. It's daring. It's brave. It's just like him. As it should be.

He died in a skirmish with the police, the television reports. It is confirmed that this is indeed the man that had been convicted and sent to jail fifteen years ago, but we'd like to inform our viewers that, regrettably, Sirius Black had been innocent of the crimes laid against him. The bomb had been placed by a foreign terrorist that was killed in the crash. He had died a fugitive.

Finally, the truth. Or the truth as far as the public can, and will ever, see. You know that he had more secrets, but you aren't all that interested in them anymore; it won't do you any good to wonder, anyway. But you can't help it; there, sitting curled up in your living room with a blanket and a cup of cocoa, Sirius Black has never seemed farther away. You wonder if that star will still shine as bright as it used to, for you. You wonder if you'll ever look at dogs the same way. And you wonder if you'll ever find that little restaurant again.

* * *

**A/N:** Not sure how I feel about this. It's different from a lot of other things I've written. I've told myself I would finish it for aaaages, and I finally found it in me to do so today. At least being sick has its advantages: you've sure got a lot of time on your hands. Hope you enjoyed.


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